


Orwell And The Doctor

by Daftheed



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Friendship, Historical Figure - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-12 18:38:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7117912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daftheed/pseuds/Daftheed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Tardis has taken the Doctor off course once more. Arriving in a London hospital in 1949, he meets one of the 20th century's greatest authors. Travel awaits them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It has always been a love of mine to see the Doctor interact with historical figures from Shakespeare to Dickens (They were too nice to Dickens.) Orwell, partly because of his politics, has been omitted thus far, at least on television. So in lieu of that hopefully future episode, here is Orwell and The Doctor.

Ok, just this squiggly bit and...

Dun

The all too familiar controlled and consistent crash of the TARDIS as it landed. The Doctor smiled when the controls, for a second, were looking at him.

The Doctor looked at her sheepishly. "Well, I know. You don't like being lonely. Neither do I."

He looked down and for a second focused on his hands. They were so many things. Young, spindly, stained with blood of the past and the ravages of over a millennium. It was wrong to still see them so spotless, he thought.

But he looked up from them to find the screen flashing to life. He had aimed for 1849 only to find electric lights in the far edge of a dark room.

"Oh no, old Girl. I wanted 1849, you've sent me..." He looked open armed around the TARDIS. "...somewhere else"

He leaned on the console and spoke rapidly to himself, to remind him of something forgotten.

"Somewhere, post-1890. Wrong place, wrong time."

He ran to the other end of the console, seeking his screwdriver. He pinched it only to hear the TARDIS moan, lights turning on and off.

"Well if I left it you would have taken it, you silly girl. Might have ended up in the cricket closet again." He spoke pleadingly.

The door opened without prompting and the Doctor turned around, looked to the door, turned back to the console and addressed it again.

"Oh, alright. 5 minutes and then we go." He raised his arms. "5, ok? Edgar Allan Poe isn't going anywhere but...but I want to be there."

He checked over his Bowtie and caressed his Tweed jacket onto his shoulders.

Hands through sleeves. Check the wrists. He flicked the mirror onto him. Yes. Yes, cool.

He slipped his Screwdriver into his pocket and paddled on two feet towards the door. He had heard nothing from the outside except a clock ticking away.

How apt.

Quietly he pushed through the door and closed it behind him. The room was musty, with the stale presence of smoke.

He sniffed once. Hmm. Tobacco, faeces and something green. Lovely.

There were rows of beds on each side of the phone box. On the walls was a lack of much needed paint. The only light was a waning and struggling light bulb forced to light at the end of the beds in front of him. Farthest from the door.

Some beds were occupied, others not. They were spaced somewhat apart with apparatuses dealing with breathing and other kinds of medicine. It was all slightly out his reach.

No blood filled buckets so...late 19th century up to...19-something.

There was what seemed to the Doctor to be a very outdated electric fireplace. That was key.

That's later. This place looks old and ratty so World War II then.

Sure of himself, he top toed down the row of beds. The light still glared uncomfortably on his eyes and he had to strain to see a rather sick-looking matchbox-shaped figure on the farther bed.

Very gaunt, he thought.

Then, the light lowered and The Doctor was confused for a moment.

"Who is it?" Croaked a voice into the musty air.

The Doctor stopped and looked down at the person. He found a man, with black hair and a white, frail face. It looked older than the body it inhabited, the lips were slightly upturned and dry. A silvery blue tinge shaped the whole thing and the eyes were almost black dots, but with a touch of human blue. They peered, curious and suspicious, out of crater-like walls.

The Doctor knew instantly that this face was prematurely aged and had seen a great deal too quickly. If he were peering at a Time Lord, regeneration might be in order.

"Oh sorry, I'm the Doctor and this is a hospital. I like hospitals."

"Yes. Sorry."

The figure crawled himself up to a sitting position before giving way to the most horrific coughing. On and on it went as the Doctor busied himself with snooting around.

The figure breathed into a cough once more before finally resembling comfort, seated as he was in the bed.

"I'm The Doctor. Not your Doctor just...er...just A doctor."

"I detected that in your fashion. You really do stand out."

The Doctor fiddled with his jacket. "Oh, thanks. Just a bit cool, y'know? Plus sometimes the best way to blend in is to stick out."

The doctor took a chair from the far end of the room, talking as he went.

"So you, what's your story then, eh? Got a nasty thing by the sounds of it."

He almost dropped himself into place at the foot of the bed. "What is it then?

"TB."

The Doctor looked at him cluelessly.

"Tuberculosis."

He flashed with recognition and smiled before composing himself just as quickly. He rubbed his hands together slowly and stayed on task.

"So is it fatal?"

The man looked away from him towards the ceiling but said nothing. The Doctor spoke in a lower tone.

"Oh ok. I'm sorry." He said softly.

The man looked back to him. "Where are you from? You aren't from here."

The bowtied creature was about to say so when he realised where he was.

"Ah, this is a hospital so at the risk of sound mad I'm going to say..."

"Northampton?" The man butted in.

"Yes, yes. Northampton. Better than the other directions of Hampton. Surprisingly little ham."

"Uh huh."

The two were still. The maligned bedded one kept his hands to his sides.

"Oh, sorry, what's your name?"

"Eric Blair. A pleasure." Eric shook the Doctors hand as hard as he could. "I'm a writer."

"Writers!" He clapped his hands softly. "I haven't spoken to one of you since JK. Tell you what, fabulous woman but her work, so-so."

Eric was doused with confusion. "JK who? I haven't heard of them. Are they a woman writer?"

"Well, female author, yes. She's still another 40 or 50 years away" He explained.

"What do you mean?"

The Doctor threw his hands to his head and held them there.

I can't believe I didn't ask.

"What year is it?" he said, taking a full second with each word.

"Its 1949?" He answered at a loss. "September."

The Doctor was excited suddenly from memory. "Oh I like this month. The Berlin Airlift ends. Total success. Mind you, ALOT of planes and so on, can't be great for the air."

"I have been trying to keep track of things in Berlin. Everything is happening so fast and I can't keep up, being stuck in here." Blair muttered.

"How long have you been here?" The Doctor asked.

"I've been here a few days. I've been in hospitals for the last year and nine months."

The Doctors hearts plucked with pity.

He flexed his arms and pouted towards Eric. "What do you do Eric? To ignore the boredom? What do you do?"

"I write. And read. Finished a Novel not long ago. It was terrible, not enough edits. I could only go through it twice."

The Doctor became interested. "Which Novel? Is it a new one? No wait, I mean new for the 70's or...is it new?"

Eric chose to ignore the mysterious Doctors mannerisms.

"It was published a few months ago. I called it The Last Man in Europe but they changed it."

"What did they call it instead?"

Eric looked at his counterpart at the end of the bed tensely. As he spoke, he stared down the Doctor.

"1984. The year its set in."

1984!

"Wait, sorry, are you...are you George Orwell?"

Eric shifted in his bed and nodded gently.

"Yes, I am George Orwell."

The Doctor practically rocketed from his seat. "Oh George, George Orwell! That is COOL! I'm such a fan of yours. I mean, mostly a fan, some of the stuff on women is a bit...eh, but you are a literal legend! Really!"

George had not moved. A soft, near inaudible Thank you was all he could muster. His voice was a whisper of what it once was.

"You came up with so much that humans are still using. Like, 'Big Brother', 'Newspeak' and 'Doublethink'" The Doctor strode up to Orwell and shook his hand for the second time, slightly too hard.

"So you have read the book. Thank you, for your deliberate over-praise."

The Doctor kneeled down to be at eye level with the bedridden writer.

"See, you don't know but you become such an icon." The Doctor practically gawked over the bedridden writer.

"If I do, it will be for the wrong reasons. No communist devotee of mine has left me without feeling disappointed because of what I am."

The Doctor smirked and carried himself back up to the ground on both feet and stood clutching the rails at the foot-end of the bed.

"Oh Orwell, Orwell-Orwell-Orwell!".

Right ok, got it, he's Orwell and its 1949, September.

The Doctor suddenly frowned as he looked towards Orwell, regaining his posture and composure. Orwell noticed.

"Are you alright, Doctor? You seem to be mad." He quipped.

The Doctor still said nothing. He knew what was coming. It was in his brain. The cubic centimetres in his skull held knowledge that meant more to no one but George.

"George I-"The Doctor took a gulp of air. "I want to show you something."

George looked up at him and smiled weakly. "Well, before you do, tell me: Who are you and what do you do? And why are you in London?"

Orwell. Always so direct. I love it.

"Well, this may be hard for you to believe, George but I am a Time Traveller. That blue thing over there is my box, I'm a mad man and I am inside it. Not right now but nominally." His voice and pace rose and fell and his changing tenors echoed over the whole room. George looked at him with a dull grin and refused despite his wish, to laugh.

"Prove it."

The Doctor answered his challenge.

He walked towards the TARDIS, point back at George and almost losing his footing as he dragged himself in one direction and faced the other.

"I'll be right back, stay where you are and...don't panic."

Stepping inside the TARDIS, he gave it a quick trip into the future.

Two weeks. Get a newspaper, two weeks old.

Retrieving the newspaper and getting chased away from the shops, The Doctor returned to Orwell, paper in hand. He waved it to the Writer.

"Hehe, see? Read it and don't weep"

He tossed it to Orwell but he didn't even try to catch it. He was puzzled.

"How did you do that? How did you make it disappear?"

The Doctor stepped closer until the harsh light no longer obscured Orwell's features.

"Oh, it's a TARDIS. Moves through time and space. It's like a universal jack-in-the-box"

Orwell eyed the Doctor suspiciously. For a moment they shared eye contact before the Doctor remembered what he was doing.

"The paper, George, the paper. See the date." He gestured to it.

Orwell gave it a moment's look before putting it down.

"Not impressive, Doctor. This could easily be faked and with blue police boxes that can apparently 'disappear' I am not prone to gullibility."

The Doctor became frustrated and found himself wanting.

I'll take him somewhere.

"Oh all right, all right George. Ill prove it better. Stand up."

George did not move.

"You can stand up?"

"It's not trouble standing, Doctor, but catching my breathe. If I stand up too long I can't stop coughing."

"Ah, ok. Sorry it's just; do you want me to show you something?"

"Like?"

"How about the earth? From Space I mean. Or maybe 400 BC? I have a bone to pick with Socrates. I've been putting it off for 9 regenerations but now that I've remembered-"

"The future."

The Doctor almost missed him.

"Sorry, I was monologing again. Do that sometimes. What did you say?"

George sat up with a wince from pain and spoke with a curiosity he hadn't felt in some time.

"Show me England in 20 years. Or 30. I want to see where it all goes."

"Ok."

"And Doctor, do you possess anything that would help me move?"

Yes, Brilliant! But wait, is he just playing me for laughs. No! Why would he do that? Orwell; many things, funny, not really one of them.

"I have just the thing, give me one sec." Off he ran back into the strange and tiny blue box.

"Okay old girl, we've got the master of cynicism with us and I say we lift his spirits with some air. People like air."

He slinked off into one of the possibly hundreds of thousands of rooms to find those one object.

Oxotron should work. Small, easily attached, no long term damage. Considering...

After getting lost in the hall of medical 'stuff' that Ten had named, he finally found it. It was a small object looking like a stethoscope. The top part had two thin metal prongs that attached to the throat to make the voice easier to find. The thicker box on the end attached to the torso and optimised the respiratory system. At least enough for mobility.

Satisfied, The Doctor went upstairs...or down, maybe sideways. The way he went took him back to the console and out into the hospital again.

"There we are."

George looked at the object with mixed interest and unease.

"Is it...is it safe?"

The Doctor looked at it, up to George, and then back down at the Oxotron.

"Probably, probably."

The Doctor stood and stared at Orwell for a moment, to see his reaction. If he assented, it meant his mortality was waning in his own mind but if it wasn't, he would ask more questions.

"I accept, Doctor."

The Doctor hid his mixed glee and fear with an overpowered smile that George smirked at himself.

"You act like a child but your eyes have seen a good deal, haven't they?"

The Doctor began applying the Oxotron to his chest. The main pack first and then the small appendage to his throat. The whole process took less than a moment. The Doctor deliberately waited, hoping to use George health against him. That he would drop the question. But he didn't.

Oxotron attached, The Doctor took out his screwdriver. He was intent on switching it on but Orwell stared at him. A stare of a far too many yards for a man of 46. The Doctor caved.

"Yes, they have." He fiddled with his hands and looked downward like a child admitting to a lie.

"But what I've done and seen George, it's nothing compared to you."

The Doctor looked up to find Orwell still eyeing him uncomfortably. "You want to know why I am going with you, Doctor?"

The Doctor lowered the screwdriver momentarily. "Why?"

George leaned back, smirked ever so slightly and softened his gaze.

"Because I try wherever I can to find an objective truth. And hard though this is, I realise that you would not lie so stupendously, expect me to believe it and also know who I am."

George spoke with a slight rise in intonation that was weakened considerably by his voice. As he feared, George had an urge to cough and, by now, it had reached a fitful stage.

'GUUH!'

The Doctor suddenly remembered what he was doing. "Right, sorry. Screwdriver, ok." He spoke as if he were speaking to himself from the outside.

Aiming carefully, he activated the screwdriver, it produced its special sound and in a moment, without any fluff or buster, the Oxotron activated and for a moment both The Doctor and Orwell wondered what had changed. Then Orwell suddenly found he could breath slightly easier. He touched his neck, searching for his vocal chords.

"Will it-"

"No, just the breathing. It doesn't affect the voice. Sorry." The Doctor replied, factually but with sadness that George saw.

"It's alright. I'm feeling strangely aware of my chest. Like there is a piston in my lungs, powering away."

George noticed that his pain was reduced, his breathes got longer and the air suddenly seemed less at a standstill.

"I feel much better, in point of fact."

The Doctor could not stop grinning. "You can thank future Martian explorers. Compact and easy. Works for about half an hour against the Carbon atmosphere but on good old earth? Practically a lifetime."

"Oh, I will stand up, I think."

The Doctor watched without interference or fear as the aged 46 year old Burmese-born writer, bedridden since 1948, stood upright and with an air of health he hadn't had for decades. He had stood before, but only for quick walks.

The Doctor gave him an expectant look. "Well, what d'you think, eh?"

George smiled as well as he could with his prematurely thinned lips. "I feel like I could march in Spain again, or walk in the country somewhere nice."

George noticed The Doctor practically skipping with his feet.

"Sorry, George, good old George, it's just...you haven't seen the best part." The Doctor gasped.

George looked down at his garments. "Do you mind if I change?"

"Oh, not at all, no. I found this cool outfit in a hospital too."

George rolled his eyes ever so slightly. "Cool? You sound English but you sometimes drop American words into your sentences."

The Doctor had no defence. "Well...you know, language changes George. You of all people know that."

As George stuck on more fashionable clothes, the Doctor with his eyes away, focused on the TARDIS.

"Yes Doctor. And it is changing for the worst. Any phrases that aren't some American recycling are some kind of political catch-all. Language is being moulded so that we don't have to think to use it, Doctor. And we should never stop thinking."

"Yes George, if only there was a word for that, eh? Simple, easy word that makes you think of language manipulation the moment you said it."

Now dressed, George turned round to look the Doctor down. "I think you missed the point of what I said."

The Doctor felt he was being slightly unfair. "No George, I just have a much more unique perspective."

George and the Doctor were standing in the middle of the corridor and for the first time, were of equal weight to the other.

"You are tall, aren't you?"

George nodded.

"I have a friend who is quite tall. A woman. Red hair. About my height."

"Yes well, it's hard to hide away when people hunt for me. Being 6 foot 2 inches is like being a tall poppy."

The Doctor suddenly dropped into incredulity and gesticulation. "George! Far too easy a metaphor! And you are the one that's always writing about how we think and write in lazy ways. If so George, tall poppy?" The Doctor acted almost insulted. "I have heard that before."

George looked timid in response to the Doctors charade and mumbled. "Sorry, it's been a while. I'm not my best."

The Doctor then turned sympathetic. "Oh all right, George, all right. It's ok. Got a bit caught up in the..."

"...In the what, Doctor?"

They stood for what seemed like twenty seconds but both men felt it was longer. Orwell because of the clock he had been forced to hear since he arrived and the Doctor because he hated consecutive, forward time. Without distractions, it would drive him mad.

"Anyway George, things to do, people to see. Things to see, people to...well, you get the picture."

The Doctor moved like a knight on a chessboard to the TARDIS door. He crashed through it and into the console room. George stood awkwardly for a moment, wondering where all the light was coming from only to find the small chinned Doctor return, head popped out like a child's toy soldier.

"Well, come along, George, come along!"

George stood firm as he got more used to his lungs working properly. He had a limp glint in his eye.

"Doctor I am not comfortable with the idea of us sharing such a tiny space."

The Doctor slinked back into the TARDIS, shouting back as he did. "George, such a homophobe. Your great failure as a man, if you ask me."

There was a distant electronic sound and Orwell could hear the Doctor muttering an apology, but not to him.

The Doctor then began to spout of about Orwell himself as well as talking what to Orwell was only nonsense. As he did, George eased closer to the blue box. Its paint was pleasant on the eye and George took the time to read the sign on its front.

..."And furthermore, they really miss the point a lot with you because you did as well. Socialists, communists, conservatives, all of them wanted a bit of you but in the end..." George wasn't listening. It was at first a chance angle. He saw, suddenly, that he could see very far off into what looked to be a circular room. He instantly was on guard and fascinated. Hand on the doorframe; George Orwell looked head on into the TARDIS.

To George, the sight was half-miraculous, half- horrifying. He was scared instantly to see so many different things, little things, moving about and functioning, all in the control of one man he had known for half an hour to be a child dressed as a man.

He became very uneasy of the Doctor and stepped inside slowly, holding on to whatever he could.

"Ah, finally, taking it in, I see. Don't bother trying to be witty or sarcastic. I have heard all of them"

The Doctor was running around in circles, prepping the TARDIS. Orwell stood and took it all in. He was almost excited, his lungs giving him breaths of air he had only dreamed of. But he was very uneasy about the Doctors intentions and abilities.

"Doctor, how big is this..."

"Spaceship, George. And I'm not actually all that sure. More than the earth's surface, I think but then, who is going to measure it? She probably knows but she is hard to talk to."

"She knows? Your ship?" George questioned.

"Yes. The TARDIS. She's a living working machine. The soul of the universe in one place. She's seen the end and the beginning, all the possible universes, one where you're left handed or right, one where I'm dead at 4 years old, others where the Daleks become pacifists."

The Doctor stood back and looked at his oldest, dearest and most loved friend. "She sees all of it, at once, forever. Giving her directions doesn't always work but she is usually better at picking locales than me."

"So time is like a...force that can be altered?"

"Sort of. It's nothing like that, but for the purposes of the layman..."

George was still looking around the TARDIS and then found himself without something he knew he would need.

"Err, Doctor, I just need to retrieve my diary, is that-"

"Oi!" The Doctor dramatically snapped his fingers and watched the door clamp shut well before Orwell even climbed down from the console. The Doctor then jumped right in front of the disappointed Orwell and spoke straight to his face.

"I know of you, Eric Arthur Blair. And I know that you write meticulously, daily. And let's just say I know you don't write about this."

George took pause as the Doctor retracted his head back, still facing the Time Lord.

"Do you kill me? With your time travel? Do I die on Mars in 2004 or some such nonsense?"

The Doctor was quite abruptly on the defensive. He knew it and turned around, pretending to be at work.

"Erm, no. Sorry can't tell you that."

"Why not?"

"Because by knowing your future you change it, by definition." He lied.

George was for a moment very unsure of anything. This wild creature in his blue box that sounded English but clearly was not, so far as he knew, might know when he died. George thought it best not to pry, but he was too curious.

"When do I die, Doctor?"

George wandered right up to him and gave him the hardest stare he could. The Doctor almost shrivelled under the man's black slits. He was determined suddenly. It reminded the Doctor of himself.

Yes, because NOW is the time to flatter myself.

"George Orwell, one of the most important writers who ever lived. I can't tell you. And the reason I can't tell you is because if I do I could create a rift." He said rapidly.

George was not satisfied. "A rift?"

"A rift or tear in Time. Time is a force, right? Well what I would be doing is destroying that force. And then, everything would tear apart. Imagine a universe with no life, no time."

"Are you making this up Doctor?"

The Doctor controlled his growing anger. "No George, I am not lying. If I tell you when you die, you will make me take you there and you will cause a rift and even if you don't..."

The Doctor flipped around and leaned on the console.

Trenzalore

"When you go to the point in time or space where you die, it just might be the actual reason you die. Say you die on mars in 2004 and say I knew it. If I take you there in the TARDIS, it WILL happen. If I don't, you never go there and live to be 101 instead." The Doctor took his turn to stare down George. "Understand?"

George spoke even more quietly than normal. "I don't understand fully. But I am willing to go on not knowing everything."

George laughed silently. "You did invite me, after all."

The Doctor paused for a moment, turned to face to the side of console parallel to George. He thought for a moment how dangerous it could be having George with him.

His death is a fixed point. His influence is too great to change it. In 4 months on January 21st, he dies. I can't change it.

The Time Lord sighed. To master time was not always a gift. Yes, you could attend a man's every birthday and have only 86 days pass, but you couldn't stop the big things. Not without a lot of deception and risk. The Time War still happens, Hitler still causes World War II and George Orwell still dies in 1950.

Then, that sentence that drove him on came back; reminding him of who was on board and of what was possible, even in the face of horrific inevitability.

Until then...

"Yes, George, I did invite you, I did. Now, all of time, space, all of earth, the moon, anywhere else you care to think of. Still want the future? The past, perhaps?" He thrust his hands outward as if in embrace.

"Where to?"

George barely thought for a moment before deciding.

"I want to hear a voice Doctor. A voice I have not heard for a long time."

"Well, spit out a name then." Said the Doctor, goading him on.

George looked at his host with sincerity.

"My own."


	2. Part Two

Even Orwell had to be amazed at this strange room around him. NOt just the collections of light and hues that attacked his eyes, but also the way the Doctor seemed to hold it with some reverance. Even as he dashed about. BUt what could one man possibly need with such a device?

"Doctor, how does this machine work, exactly? What is its fuel source?"

The Doctor was busy finicking with something at the console.

"Well its...ok, first do you know what a computer is?"

George looked at him deadpan and clueless. The doctor looked away, disappointed with himself.

"Ok, do you know what a calculator is?" He tested.

George could see the Doctor wasn't making an effort to look at him.

"Yes, it solves equations, does it not?"

"Yes that's right. Well imagine the TARDIS is like a big calculator making trillions of computations a millisecond. Understand?"

He crossed his arms and felt tired. He needed somewhere to sit.

"Not at all, Doctor. No."

The Doctor smiled thinly. "Well, worth a go."

George was much inclined to sit down. He had sat in some of the most uncomfortable places imaginable, but he was so tired even now, even as his breaths drew greater. He could feel it working, not quite perfectly. He felt like a dead balloon had been inflated in him. And it inflamed his brain with tiredness. But not sleep.

"Doctor, is there a chair somewhere? I have awful heels." He said flatly.

"Yes yes, erm...try the gymnasium or no..." The Doctor stood up and almost violently grabbed George and flung the pair down the steps, to a corridor beneath the console.

"Jesus, Doctor, where the blazes are we going?"

The Doctor looked manic, smiling the smile of a very happy mad man. George was barely keeping up and in the end The Doctor grabbed him and picked him up, through corridor after corridor.

"Doctor I must insist you put me back on my feet." George was breathless and exhausted.

"Sorry George, almost there. You will like this. Trust me, you will adore this."

George rolled his eyes, holding into the Doctor for dear life and wishing he didn't have to.

Then all the same they stopped moving and were facing a wooden doorway without a door. George caught his breath.

"Doctor..." He exhaled sharply.

"If you mention this to anyone-"

The Doctor rolled his eyes in turn and turned away from George for a moment.

"Yes yes, physical violence, literary references lovely stuff, Georgie boy, really but before you do anything..." He clasped his hand together, locking fingers and turned to George, walking backwards into the room.

"...Look. At. This."

And in one move he left Georges view. He was still catching his breath and was relieved to see that the corridor slanted downwards slightly. That little bit less effort counted with his condition.

Still, George noted without prejudice the way he seemed to recover more normally than he had from something like this, His knees weren't aching as much. His feet were weak but not giving out and his breaths were not shallow. He felt many years and experiences younger.

All this but still he found he disliked its artificial feeling. Like he was part-machine. And not just because of the Oxotron. It felt to him as if he had recovered too fast.

He heard a vague airy sound coming from the room ahead. Though he only spied the carpet, he could feel a sense of comfort emanating from it. It was a comfort he only really felt nowadays if he was half sleeping

He began to step forward and came into the room. It felt very soft in the air and the smell brought him back to his days as a bookseller. It was instantly obvious why.

Stacked, endlessly, for what he thought must really be miles, were books. Many colours, chandeliers with no light on them, but a strong yellow almost sunlight came in from the sides of the walls. He could peer into doorway after doorway and find endless books in them still. He looked for some kind of repeating pattern, some idea that there was a trickery. But there was none

There was a strange kind of travel, not through time like the TARDIS, which he was yet to actually see first-hand. No, it was far different. He felt like he was a child again. Back in Burma, in that small room with what few books he happened to have. He had been so happy. Happiness born of ignorance was happiness nonetheless. In this room, he felt like a pleasant side character, able to read at his leisure.

WHats more, the sheer number of books was incalcuable in his mind just from what he could see.

He looked in front of him. He found a rug, red, with the centre cut out in a rectangular shape, with a table made of wood with seats that looked very comfortable. It was an open area and the library did not start yet. There was something that looked like a stream to his left. There was no barrier from it. He was amazed, enthralled and also overwhelmed a bit. He sat down without words, the Doctor nowhere to be found.

But then, he appeared, with quite the stack of books in front of him. George smiled encouragingly. The Doctor dropped a stack of at least 12 books on the table. Where they were from, he couldn't guess.

But he was darkly pleased to find the Doctor out of breathe this time.

"Ok, so there's these ones, the Orwell sections pretty large so I might just...sit down."

The lanky little man made landing on the couch opposite Orwell.

"Orwell section?"

The Doctor answered without context. "Yes, it's a big area, lots of little corners and it isn't even exhaustive, just the recent stuff."

"So, what do people write about me? Why?"

The Doctor stopped his hyperactive musings and looked at George, realising what was said.

His voice grew soft, like he was telling a child of the existence of Disney land.

"George, what you wrote left a lot to think about. And, and...People talk about you and your work." He broke into a smile. "So all that toil, all those days kipping and marching and running from bombs, they don't ever get forgotten, George."

George leaned back in his chair and raised a hand to his chin. This was a lot to take in. Almost too much.

"Doctor, I am surprised. Really surprised that this was what happened."

He leaned forward, realising what was in front of him. "May I?"

The Doctor paid attention and was unable to stop a small grin. "Yes, of course."

Orwell peered over the several titles.

Some were boring looking and a few had a very interesting form of bonding in the fibres. Others had very beautiful outlines; a few had pictures of him. Some of his own books were there, with pictures on the front he didn't remember. So they had been reprinted. This made him crease slightly. He hadn't liked most of his fictional writing before. Not even his latest work. He was somewhat amused to find an edition of 1984 with an eye on the front.

He hoped the new novel he was working on would be a better, more honest, interesting work. All he knew was it would be about Burma.

Then, at the bottom he found two books and these piqued his interests more than the others.

The first was a book titled "Orwell: A life" by D.J Taylor.

The Second was a book whose title he disbelieved could exist.

"Why Orwell Matters" by Christopher Hitchens.

It was all very endearing. The Doctor watched with silent glee as Orwell slowly gave way to his gratitude and shock that he was so remembered and so fortunate to have his name still remembered, and by no small number of people. His only true dissappointment was to find a biography. Unneccesary, he thought.

It was indescribable all the same. He had received more press in his time, that was true. He had gained much attention from Animal Farm. And Nineteen Eighty-Four was his best received book. But to see his name still being mentioned, it was unbelievable. He saw on the books backs that their copyright transcended the 21st century.

He thought, for some reason, of the trees he planted years before and the Rose bush he had planted outside one of his homes. They would live into that century.

He had felt so distant and cold to that future, and the stratosphere from whose point of view was rearing and rolling with nuclear armament and military build up. In the shadow of the war, a new rivalry brewed from the ashes, between the east and the west. He had seen this coming, but did not feel clever.

He honestly wondered how anyone could dare miss it or ignore it.

But then, looking briefly at these pages, it was obvious from context that no real nuclear war had happened. He snapped from his thinking backwards and forwards and asked the time traveller seated in front of him. It seemed he had an unusual advantage in answering some of his perceptions.

"Doctor...The nuclear war...does it ever happen?"

The Doctor looked up from his own reading.

"The twentieth century one? Oh now, a bit of rough and tumble, a few actual wars but no, those weapons went unused."

"Really? But what about the people under the states that owned them? Were they free? Or should I say, from my time, do they stay free? What became of those states?"

The Doctor thought about this carefully. To tell George any truth was difficult, because he himself was unaware of the whole picture. But he knew that while there wasn't mass death, there was much corruption. His time in UNIT had left him uneasy about any large human institutions.

"George, those weapons were kept because it was seen as almost insane to not have them. Men like that were...everywhere."

George noticed, quicker than the Doctor would have thought, the way the Doctor seemed to 'know' what he was talking about. He realised the Time Lord was in fact, a soldier. or at least, an ex soldier. It made him pity the Doctor for the first time: He too knew the feeling of being led by and subserviant to callous mad men in wartime.

"But even though the Cold War ended, the power of the state, of the governments, of the rich, they didn't quite dwindle. What I do know is that the human race goes on to conquer the stars. It doesn't end in a big, bright, horrible light but...some people weren't quite free."

"Who wasn't free? And why, Doctor?"

George was sounding serious and he became colder in his questioning. His wish to pressure the Doctor came from a petulant Childs behaviour, which the Doctor exhibited to the point of intoxication.

"Racism and Homo-, well, racism nonetheless didn't go away. Hatred of difference, hatred of the black person, or the jewish person, or women...their freedom took longer than one would think to be fully realised." The Doctor began to sound depressed at what he was telling Orwell and he felt worn down by the authors strong blue eyes.

"The truth is, there's a lot still to be done. And you won't live long enough before the big things change for good. But they do. Slowly. That doesn't make the fact it's there ok, but it doesn't mean it isn't worth pursuing, as you'd know."

George sat back again while the Doctor thought over his knowledge of the twentieth century. So, Orwell surmised, he had been a soldier.

"I'm sorry Doctor. I was being very forthcoming and I don't wish to offend."

The Doctor smiled and tried to cheer things up.

"What is it with the British and being polite?"

George looked at him slightly seriously, but dropped the façade quickly and answered.

"I think its guilt and class." He said plainly

The Doctor playfully dismissed him. "Well of course YOU would think that."

George smiled with a little humour in his voice.

"Ok Doctor, what does the alien think?"

The Doctor played it around in his head.

"I think...it's...yes, probably guilt and class." Not unlike the Time Lords.

The Doctor caught a real glimpse of Orwell seeming confident, but it was barely there. He reminded himself that Orwell was a man who consistently and aggressively kept himself in check. A man who tried. But not always successfully. He was almost an evolving being. The only thing he was sure about was that he wasnt sure about much.

Dun

The telling sound of a TARDIS landing brought The Doctor back to why he took Orwell in the first place.

"George, we're here."

Orwell seemed confused.

"You mean, we will hear my voice?"

The Doctor suddenly remembered what this meant. He was about to run into someone he had not seen for a long time. And they didn't know.

"Yes, George but first, a few things I need to talk over. Come, let's get back to the console room. Take one book with you and don't let anyone read it. We can't afford to have timelines getting all tangled."

Orwell was certain he understood very little about what was just said, but he obliged, taking the last book and walking with the Doctor, toward something new.

Arriving in the console room, The Doctor spoke all the way.

"Lovely country, Spain. Lots of stuff happens and beautiful sunshine. I was there once. There was two of me; I think I was wearing that rainbow coat, not sure. Anyway..." His voice led on and with one hand he flicked the TARDIS door open behind him, George standing few feet opposite.

"...Spain!"

The doors opened onto a city-scape that had recently seen great change. People walked in the streets, careless and with candour, posters emblazed with purple colours adorned every wall. Soldiers going to and fro the train station walked with a sense of purpose.

For George, it must be impossible. He remembered and had even written about the atmosphere in revolutionary Spain. But to be thrust back into it so suddenly, it was jarring. He had only once been to Spain before.

Now, he had only once been to Spain. Twice.

The Doctor riffed all the same, used to summing up new locations for new people.

"The year is...oh, 1936. November or December-ish. Civil wars in full swing."

He was walking up and down the brown, slightly degraded street, peering into to posters and shop windows, oblivious to how silly he looked.

"Fascists, Catholics and Franco supporters on one side, Communists, Anarchists and Socialists on the other.

Tell you what George, you humans know how to make wars big." His smile faded slightly.

"But we know what comes after."

George hardly listened, trying to be certain he was not mad or mistaken. He looked at the atmosphere, the way the streets were, and it had to be Spain. It was seared into his mind where he had been. Spanish speakers could be heard and one newspaper he could find had the date. It was indeed 1936.

Not satisfied, George went up to one couple who looked like they were somewhat friendly, awkwardly asking in almost dead Spanish what year it was. He thought he must sound plain insane to them. It had been too long since he had had to use Spanish.

"Are you asking the year, comrade?"

George stopped and searched for the right response. The English was perfect, yet he could tell that in complete appearance, the couple in front of him could only be local. Uncertainly he replied, in English, with the affirmative.

"It is 1936, you hilarious man."

George oddly nodded and stepped aside, allowing the couple past. This was strange.

The Doctor walked up to him, neither happy nor sad, by the looks of it.

"Hey, how is it, bit boggling, eh?"

"Doctor, how can they speak English? In Spain I hardly met any English speakers, let alone in the street."  
The Doctor clicked. Oh right.

"Well George, that blue box we just walked out of, again, is able to translate things in your head."

George turned even paler than before. "In my head?"

The Doctor regretted his words immediately, realising the man he was talking to.

"Doctor, what is in my brain? How did it get there? Explain it to me because I am feeling very invaded." He said with impunity.

The Doctor clutched at his jacket, knowing he was at a crucial moment.

"George, it's only a translator. The TARDIS keeps things simple, stops wires getting crossed, yeah?"

He touched Georges shoulder, realising how silly he looked only afterward, as George stood taller than him. "If I wanted to hurt you, I'd have done it by now, don't you think?"

George was still unsure of himself. "Doctor, I need a moment. I must have a coffee, I'm still tired. I'm heading into there."

The Man was pointing at a brown, slightly drab but populated cafe across the street, with glass windows that hid nothing within, at least on the ground floor, as the glass lay out in the street.

"Yes, ok."

George stood pained to speak for a moment, not looking at his opposite number.

"Do you have money?"

The Doctor fuddled about in his pockets.

"Ah yes, she's always putting things in these when I'm not looking. Here."

He handed Orwell a series of notes and coins whose value he did not know. Then more. Then notes aplenty. Then more coins. George began to wonder if he was ver going to stop. It took George pushing his hand away. If there was any time to appear frugal...

"Ok Georgie, meet back here after a coffee. I'm going to go around looking for trouble."

"Trouble? Ha! Doctor, this is a nation in war. Trouble is around every alley and street corner."

The Doctor nodded like a child.

"Well then, I'll be busy. Now go on, shoo shoo, and don't say anything you shouldn't."

George took a moment, as the Doctor shooed him away, to reflect on the bounty of time travel. But the more he wondered about it, the more incessantly puzzling it was. What made the Doctor an authority on it? Why can he time travel here and walk around and let him buy coffee, but cannot prevent deaths from happening?

He didn't willingly believe what was happening around him. He wanted to think he was dreaming, but decided that by having that thought, the idea was moot. After sitting down alone at a table meant for two, he wondered why the Doctor had come for him. He was troubled.

But nonetheless he was in Spain, in 1936, enjoying a coffee in a cafe he vaguely remembered being in once before. He decided it could not be otherwise. The scene, the setting, it was too elaborated, even with the apparent English being spoken to him, for it to be a fakery.

He remembered the scene, vaguely. He had been sitting on a sunny but cold day, with clouds making the sun look like an egg yolk. The seat, if he remembered, was the one now ahead and to his right. He was sitting facing away from the door.

He thought of his wife. She was alive in this time. He depressingly realised that the Doctor probably knew some rule keeping him from seeing her.

Strangely for what was going on with him, he couldn't help thinking of H.G Wells and his work.

He remembered the article he wrote about him "Wells, Hitler and the World State". Wells hated it. Called George a little shit.

Orwell knew Wells knew nothing of real time travel, but it humoured him to think that Wells had touched on the idea, not knowing of the Doctor, or of the possibility it might be true in the hear and now.

He realised, in this train of thought, that if this really was 1936, then Wells was still alive. That further meant that he knew when Wells was going to die, before Wells did.

Orwell retracted his cup closer to his chest, realising now why the Doctor had been so obstructive regarding his own future.

Orwell just couldn't imagine meeting Wells, or writing to warn him of his death. For one he'd seem a kook and for another, Wells died a death that was unsurprising for his age. So it was pointless anyway.

He would feel guilt as well, to tell a man the specifics of his death, and realised now that maybe the best way to live was to be ignorant of one's own future, or at least one's own death. And so George understood the Doctors reasoning by their argument earlier. Part of him wasn't pleased to realise this. Facing unpleasants facts was never easy, but for George it was the only honesty worth having.

Speaking of which, he thought of how time had passed for him. He wasn't sure, but it felt like two hours had passed since meeting the Doctor, but really, it was 13 years in the past. All of this made his head hurt.

Distracting himself, he looked out the window. The Doctor was still there, looking like something out of Punch magazine, right down to the tweed jacket. George chuckled hoarsely. He had forgotten the reason he was breathing normally.

The sun was shining bright and it intensified for a moment to the point that he had to look away. He found his coffee empty and was about to ask for more when, peering out the window again, he saw the sun split between the clouds, like a yolk from an egg. His eyes wandered down to street level again, almost in response. He saw a figure, clad in a big, olive jacket, new looking, with a beard unshaved for days and an expression of a total lack of sleep about him. He wore a cap that was slightly too big for him and was walking with an effort to be confident towards the cafe.

With him was another man, with strange looking ears and a leather jacket, walking confidently and with none of the other figures reluctance or temperance. He did have a distinct dark look about him, though.

The latter man he was unsure of. But Orwell knew right away who the huskier man was.

It was Eric Blair who was walking towards him.

The Doctor was slightly out his depth. Looking like a child from a private school had not endeared him to anyone he chose to speak to. He heard all kinds of things from people, most of them labelling him a bourgeoisie dog or some other thing. He didn't take it hard, but he was beginning to realise he looked out of place here.

He remembered why it was he typically stayed out of nations in war. Too many social rules to follow. He contented himself with readings from his sonic screwdriver and just looking at the world happen.

He smiled sometimes, to himself, to think how this would all end. The human race was to survive this and go on. But in the meantime, many nasty things were ahead. War, genocide, racism, protests...The human race did not always leave itself room for sympathy. But his forgotten years in the Time War taught him that the ravages of war can always get worse. In fact, they were destined to. War only caused more brutalisation. More chaos. More agony.

He was in a place where the phrase "Facism means War" was never more true.

The human race still had much of its worst to experience. But still, he thought, they clung for dear life onto home and recognised its singular awesomeness.

The sun still went round the earth, from earth's point of view, while earth went round the sun for real. He never bored of being on earth like he had on Gallifrey. The 1st him, he recalled, had lived a whole life on Gallifrey. It was not always a fruitful one. But he was glad he travelled from home. Ran away. Though he missed it occasionally like a dead lover, Earth was more interesting.

This street, with the people spitting at him as they passed, did not diminish that. He had worn the wrong outfit, he accepted. He looked Victorian in a very unvictorian place.

He decided he had waited long enough and headed towards the cafe. He remembered, almost in the same instance he started walking, what he was looking for.

The man in the leather jacket walked in front of him, oblivious, talking actively with a much burdened man. The Doctor almost couldn't believe it. He barely gained enough composure to walk, quickly and frightfully unsubtly past the two towards the cafe door, beating them to it.

"...Is that a common sight here...I'll take the sight of it at face value..."

He burst in the door and looked incredulous at the confused shopkeeper, flinging money at him confusedly and finding George, sitting next to him.

"Yes yes, two coffees, whatever they are, and thank you."

George looked at the Doctor, judgmental and also with utter loss of words. He took advantage before orwell could speak again.

"Yes, I know that's you. You can't meet you. You are a very singular person and you can't meet yourself."

George snapped out of it as the lumbering two figures, one of whom was George himself, were almost at the door. The Doctor was facing the door, opposite the seated, older George.

"But wasn't this the idea? I hear my own voice?"

"Yes George but NOT BY TALKING TO HIM!" He said, trying desperately to keep his voice down.

"Sit down you idiot." George mumbled.

The Doctor quickly tossed George a newspaper and made hand signals that indicated to pretend to read it. George obliged.

The Doctor looked as the two came in. One of them was him.

9 was not a short life. He remembered now. He had come here during the hundred years between his leaving and coming back for Rose. For Rose, it had only been a few seconds. Lord, he thought, how long ago that was. He thought for a minute of Amy. He should really go visit her soon. They'll be wondering what he has been up to.

George tried to look as little as he could, watching without looking and listening in on the conversation between the far younger duo of themselves.

"Me? No. I got this of a...a defector...from the front, yeah. It's fantastic isn't it?"

The younger George, who both Orwell and the Doctor could only see as Eric, replied while heaving his bag almost without breath. Orwell realised what it was he was about to hear.

"Well, they are not often so well dressed so I hope he is fighting for us."

Orwell looked away as the two sat down in the seat he remembered sitting in decades before, or was it now?

They engaged in hushed conversation beneath the menu and upwards newspaper and The Doctor got to witness a site he was sure was not of this earth: George Orwell smiling, albeit, only a little.

"I am struck with confusing satisfaction, Doctor. My voice!"

The Doctor gave a winning smile back.

"Hmm, yes George but listen, he can't see you and I should probably say, that person is me."

George turned confused for a moment. The Doctor clarified.

"Ok basically when I die fire shoots out my limbs and head and it repairs and renews every cell and changes my mind and body, ok?"

The Doctor spoke so fast that George nodded dimly anyway. He was trying to listen.

..."Tell you what, Eric, there's a man called Jack who you would quite like..."

"Oh would I? Who is he?"

"Well, he's ones of ours, of course. On the side of the revolution...mostly. He's a captain."

George was not disappointed to hear his voice, but it did do one thing he wasn't expecting: He became only more aware of his own raspy, shadowy tones. The man seated feet from him did not know he was to lose that voice in the year to come. He hadn't seen war yet. There was innocence there, of sorts.

Not much of it.

The Doctor, meanwhile, could only gawk at his past self's ears.

Good lord, the ears were bad that time. Still, at least he wasn't vain like Ten, mister 'regenerates twice'

But Orwell became down about himself. It was startling to look at himself, but this was different. It was a him away to war. A war that he learned much from but did everything to escape. He lost his voice, his sense of comradeship. He was stabbed in the back. Like with Wells, George knew all of this and could do nothing about it to help Eric. He leaned back, temporarily risking exposure, to reflect on this. They chatted passively.

"So, what's it like to hear you talk?"

George did not look at him, but responded mournfully.

"I forgot how little I spoke. And why." He leaned in again.

"The truth is, Doctor, that this scenery, with everything that's going on, just reminds me of the place. And when I was here, I remember, at some point, being with Eileen."

The Doctor didn't like that. Eileen O'Shaughnessy had been Orwell's wife. She died on an operating table during the war. And The Time Lord took his turn at being depressed. He had to tell George something awful.

"You can't meet her."

"Why not?" He asked begging.

"Because if you did, time would rip apart. You think Spain is bad? Wait til that happens."

"But Doctor, wouldn't you do it? I know, looking at you, you have felt love. And when I look into that mans eyes, the one that resembles a U-Boat captain-"

"That actually is a U-Boat captain's jacket" The Doctor interrupted.

Orwell looked glaring at The Doctor, continuing.

"That man is in love, I can tell. And you said he was you. A past you, so to speak. Am I wrong?"

The Doctor deflated, admitting defeat in himself.

"No, you're right."

Orwell peered over at the other two again, still not sure how he hadn't remembered the conversation. He still appreciated his own voice somewhat, but barely to the extent he expected.

"Was this why you brought me? Are we here for the same reason?"

"No!" He almost shouted, still trying to whisper. "I can't remember this. Time travel...stuff. But listen, it's up to you what we do next, ok? I can see me but you can't see you!"

He took a sharp breath. "Oh Lord, is this complicated."

"Well I have been confused since I got here. I'm not sure what's happening."

"Let's just...have another coffee and wait until they go."

The Doctor stood up while George still painfully lowered his long neck down to hide from his younger self. As he ordered the coffee, Eric Blair and the U-boat Captain suddenly stood up and began to walk out. As they did so, the eared one stopped and spoke right into the Doctors ear.

"Which one are you?"

He stood frozen with shock.

"The Eleventh."

The Ninth Doctor nodded

"Will I remember this?"

"No."

"Glad we made it this far. Cus you look too young to be me."

"Well, my ears are better."

"True, and my dress sense is better"

And 9 walked away, smiling cheekily.

Eleven hung about the counter for a minute, collecting energy.

He sat down again only to find Orwell getting ready to leave.

"George what are you...?"

He looked at the time traveller, disappointed.

"Doctor, I thought time travel made anything possible. I thought it could theoretically end wars, stop horrors. I thought it meant freedom. But it seems I was wrong.

I don't blame you, Doctor. I chose to come along. But if it's all the same to you, I'd like to head back to my own time and place."

His voice faltered towards the end. Both men felt vaguely annoyed at how the day had turned out. A once in a lifetime opportunity of sorts had passed by only to show that neither man had gotten over old wounds wholly.

George didn't really want to leave the Doctor, but felt he had no choice. He was his guest and he had out stayed his welcome. This and the fact he had been made worse emotionally by the trip didn't help.

The Doctor had one more trick up his sleeve, but it had to wait.

Orwell and the Doctor walked out of the cafe, heading around the street corner towards the TARDIS.

Orwell remembered he had a book with him.


End file.
